


this is where the evening splits in half (if it were ever whole)

by Victoryindeath2



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Big Brothers, Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Family Feels, Gen, I'm trying to keep this as close to TolkienGirl's Silm canon as possible, Maedhros is the best big brother of course, Maglor angsting over his failures as a brother, Maglor has to make decisions, Maglor thinks it would be better if he were captured by Morgoth in Maedhros' stead, Maglor would rather be playing his harp, because Morgoth is a jerk and Feanorians are Feanorians, hey he deserves it he forced me to write this in 2nd person, let's see how much I can make Maglor suffer, somewhat excessive italics because Maglor be like that, this fic is entirely her fault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 19:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18037034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victoryindeath2/pseuds/Victoryindeath2
Summary: Darkling storm clouds mix with smoke above, and you clutch your burdens to your chest. Your grief and your fear. Your elder brother’s hair, cut unevenly, ruthlessly—viciously.





	this is where the evening splits in half (if it were ever whole)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TolkienGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/gifts).



There is a letter, and it means nothing, and  _there_  is a handful of hair, and you snatch it up in gloveless hands almost ere it falls upon the ground, like it means  _everything_ , and you cannot breathe.

Someone squeezes your shoulder, or pushes against you, and you sift the hair through your fingers. It is far redder than it ever should be, less coppery, wet with more than the tears you cannot stay. Mud and blood coat each strand, and yet you recognize it at once. Know where it belongs, to whom it belongs

Russandol, Findekáno once called him. Once, when home meant something, and friendship also.

Darkling storm clouds mix with smoke above, and you clutch your burdens to your chest. Your grief and your fear. Your elder brother’s hair, cut unevenly, ruthlessly—viciously.

The rest of your brothers stand round you speechless, and Morgoth’s messenger cackles upon his wolf-like mount, and now is the time to act, to ride head-long into Morgoth’s land, to Angband itself, and there—there to die like your father, unlike your father, for your death would be preceded by that of your brothers, all of them younger, all of them following you down the road to destruction.

You would never see Maitimo before they killed him, or maybe you would, rent like a sheet, pierced with arrows or spears, left to die against some tree.

You have seen what Morgoth’s slaves do to their enemies, both in battle and after.

“What is your answer?” the messenger questions. His face, grotesque and broken already, twists into a hideous grin. “Will you give up your quest for my master’s jewels, and have your miserable king returned while he still has a heart to call his own?

You twist Maitimo’s hair around itself, forming braids out of habit rather than intent. Your oath no longer sparks on your lips but ashes into a cold frost, and you never ever thought you would stand alone, past your father’s death, before Maitimo’s life, with the white faces of your brothers straining toward you as though you could pronounce a decision that would save every one of your mother’s sons.

It takes the greatest restraint not to laugh wildly.

It is too late for salvation. Ambarussa burnt in the flames you lit, the flames you did  _not_  try to sway your father from setting, because he spoke so fey and so well, and you had already sworn yourself away, and sealed your doom with the lives of your kin at Aqualondë. It was easier to think of deeds to be done rather than deeds already sinned.

Maitimo tried to stop it. He did, and received scorn from Atar, and if you did not know him better you would think he almost came to blows with Atarinkë. Curvo was excessively sharp that day, but you think  _you_  hurt Maitimo the most.

“There is no middle ground this time,” you whispered to him, stepping past to follow in your father’s wake. And then, more cruelly, “Are you a scion of Fëanáro or of Nolofinwë? Your brothers are  _here_.”

You were only ever unkind when you hated what you were doing. Maitimo would have reminded you of that at the burning of the ships, standing on the brown beach, ankle deep in salt water, if only he could have unclenched his jaw. Maybe he would have run you through with the two-handed sword he swung with one hand, if only he could have loved you less.

Then you would not be standing here, forced to make a decision that could herald his death.

Can you make the decision? Can you even speak?

You close your eyes, and see visions of scarlet sea-foam and split faces, eyes struck through with arrows, silver elves scattered in death, and waves casting upon reddened shores, roaring like all the wild beasts Tyelkormo has ever hunted. Visions. Are they visions or memories?

Everything is crimson now, and will be forever more, unless you cast off your robes and the colors of the House of Fëanáro, and the eight-pointed star and oath above it.

There is no song in your heart, not now, and the shock of this realization opens your eyes, stirs you from stupor.

It is too late for action.

You hold your braided treasure close to your side, grip the hilt of your sword, wishing desperately a harp were all you had ever known, and you will never know what you were going to say or do next, because  _someone_  whirls about,  _someone_  grabs the three-fingered hand of Morgoth’s messenger and drags him off his snarling mount,  _someone_  grabs his grotesque jaw, digging blunt nails into rotting flesh, and  _someone—_

someone  _wrenches_  the monster’s head.

There is a snap, and you gasp, and the dark hair swims before your eyes, and so it isn’t fair Tyelkormo and his strong hands, but it also isn’t Carnistir, Morifinwë, whose murderous gaze has quelled many an elf who would insult his eldest brother.

It appears to be Fëanáro come to life again, silently blazing like the most spectacular flame of fury fire ever birthed.

Curufinwë seems to tower over you and all your brothers, and maybe he always has, but in this one moment you do not begrudge him this, for your will is with him as he crushes his hands against the sides of the dead messenger’s head, and when the skull cracks so do all the remaining sons of Fëanáro. Carnistir yells, and Tyelkormo throws his sword across the field, and Ambarussa begins to weep.

Curufinwë shrinks, and becomes like the Atarinkë you know best, cunning and wild and out of his depth, a depth he plunged into for Atar’s sake.

Every one of you will drown for Atar’s sake, or be burnt in greedy flame, and all you can do is wish that Maitimo were here and you were in his stead, because you  _still_  have to make a decision, and you know what that decision must be. You know what Maitimo would want.

It’s going to kill you.


End file.
